Chase’s voice again: “I’ll try to stay in the air as long as I can.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“Easy for you to say. Where the hell’s the survival equipment in these things? There isn’t even a lifebelt.”
“They’re not supposed to crash,” I said. “Listen, we may get there before you hit the water. If not, we’ll only be a couple minutes behind. Stay with the skimmer.”
“Suppose it sinks? This one’s got a very big hole in it.”
Our vehicle settled onto the pad, and we clawed the canopy open and scrambled on board. Hurry. Quinda didn’t say it, but her lips formed the word. Hurryhurryhurry—
“Losing power,” Chase said. “The magnetics are making a lot of noise. I don’t have much forward motion, and I’m still pretty high. Alex, if they quit, I’m going to take a long fall.” Something banged.
“What happened?”
“The cockpit’s coming apart, Alex.”
“Maybe you ought to go lower.”
“I’m going lower. Have no fear. When are you going to get here?”
“Twenty minutes.”
The voice from Control broke in: “Arin, you have emergency priority. We’ve returned control of your aircraft to you. Good luck.”
Chase: “I’m getting knocked around a lot up here. This thing may just flat-out disintegrate.”
We lifted. Slowly. As soon as we got above the windbrakes, the storm hit us. It was going to be a rough ride. I patched the signal from Chase into the tracking system, and put a display of the target area on the monitor.
We were beginning to accelerate. Quinda rang up a hundred eighty kilometers on the control. Top speed. I doubted the thing could manage that kind of velocity.
A blue light came on near the right side of the target display, pinpointing Chase’s position. I opened the channel. “How are we doing?”
“Not good,” came Chase’s voice.
“Any sign of the Patrol?” I didn’t really expect they’d be there that quickly, but it was a way to sound hopeful.
“Negative. How far away are you?”
“Thirty-eight kilometers. What’s your condition?”
“Dropping faster. I’m going to hit pretty hard.” The words came one at a time, broken up by the noise, and maybe a little fear. I could sense her, pressed against her seat in the shattered aircraft, looking down into a void.
“Quinda?”
“We’re going as fast as we can.” She punched up numbers on the display. Other than Chase’s aircraft, and the Fasche (which was rapidly dropping behind us), there were two blips.
I put them on the scopes. One was an airbus, headed out from Point Edward toward Sim’s Perch. The other looked to be a private skimmer, just leaving the city, headed our way, but at a greater range than we were. I wondered where the hell the Patrol was. “Chase, I’m going to leave the circuit open. We’ll be right here.”
“Okay.”
I opened a channel to the bus. “Emergency,” I said. “Skimmer in trouble.”
A woman’s voice crackled back: “This is the Sim’s Perch Express. What’s happening?”
“There’s a skimmer going down about four kilometers ahead of you, and a few degrees to your starboard. Present altitude about two hundred meters.”
“Okay,” she said, “I have the blip.”
“One pilot, no passengers. There’s been an explosion. Pilot may have broken her leg.”
“Bad night for it,” she said. Then: “Okay. I’m notifying the Patrol that I’m diverting to assist. There are several aircraft coming off the Perch. Which one are you?”
“The one in front.”
“You’ll want to get here quick. This thing isn’t maneuverable in the best of circumstances, and nobody’s going to be able to set down without getting swamped. You better think about how you’re going to handle this.”
“Okay,” I said, pulling on the cord to test its strength, which seemed substantial. “I’ve got some rope.”
“You’ll need it.”
“I know. Do what you can. Stay with her.”
Quinda bent silently over the controls, urging the skimmer forward. Her face was immobile in the pale light of the instruments. Despite everything, she was lovely. And, I thought, now forever beyond reach.
“Why?” I asked.
She swung toward me, lifting her eyes. They were filled with tears. “Do you know what you’ve been looking for? Do you have any idea what’s out there?”
“Yes,” I said, and took my best shot. “There’s a Dellacondan warship.”
She nodded. “Intact. Everything intact. Alex, it’s a priceless artifact. Can you imagine what it would mean to walk her decks, to read her logs? To bring her back? I think it’s one of the frigates, Alex. One of the frigates—”
“And you were willing to take chances with our lives to get the damned thing.”
“No. You were never in danger. I wouldn’t have—But—the—goddam—bomb—didn’t—trigger.” She squeezed the words out. “And then I couldn’t find you to warn you. I couldn’t get to you.”
“Where’s the Tanner file?”
“I hid it. You have no right to it, Alex. I’ve been working on this for years. Your uncle is dead, and there’s no reason why you should just walk in and pick everything up.”
“But how’d you get involved?”
“Didn’t it ever occur to you that Gabe wasn’t the only one wondering about the Tenandrome?”
Another blip appeared on the display. It was the rescue craft. But it was too far away. Chase would be in the water a long time before it arrived on the scene.
“Hey, Skimmer.” It was the bus pilot. “I got a glimpse of the bird. The weather closed in again right away, but I saw her. She’s not exactly falling, but she’s coming down too fast.”
“Okay. Chase, you copy?”
“Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Anything you can do?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“I understand, Chase. We’ll be there quick.”
“I don’t see anything here that’ll float except maybe the seats, and they’re anchored.”
“Okay. You can hang on for a couple minutes. We’re making our descent now. Coming fast.”
“I can see the bus. She’s following me down.”
“Good.”
Quinda again: “Chase, you won’t have any trouble getting out of the skimmer, will you?”
“No,” she said, her tone softening slightly. “I’ll be all right.”
“Chase? Is that your name?” It was the bus pilot.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Chase. We’re going to stay right with you. And your friends are coming. You’ll be all right.”
“Thanks.”
“I can’t get you out of the water. Ocean’s too rough for me to come close enough to try to reach you.”
“It’s okay.”
“I mean, I’ve got twenty people on board.”
“It’s all right. Who are you?”
“Hoch. Mauvinette Hochley.”
“Thanks, Hoch.”
“Water coming up. You’re going to hit in about twenty seconds.”
We were down near the surface now. The boiling sea unrolled, and the wind screamed. Quinda had gone quiet again. I was starting to coil the cord.
One of the monitors blinked on. “Feed from the bus,” Quinda said. We were looking at the stricken aircraft from slightly above and nearby. The bus was angled so that its running lights illuminated the scene. We could see Chase in the cockpit, pushed back into her seat, clinging to the yoke. The skimmer was shredded, undercarriage gone, holes punched in the fuselage, tail crumpled, one of its stubby wings shattered.
“How much longer?” I asked.
“Three, maybe four minutes.”
“There’s no way,” I whispered, covering the commlink with my hand so Chase wouldn’t hear.
“We’ll get there,” Quinda said.
> She hit hard. The skimmer slapped down into a trough and the ocean rolled over it.
We were all calling Chase’s name, but nothing moved in the cockpit.
“It’s sinking,” said Hoch.
The skimmer wallowed in white water; a wing lifted momentarily, and broke off, its lights still burning brightly.
“We’re right overhead,” said Hoch. “I wish to hell there was a hatch on the bottom of this son of a bitch.” She sounded distraught.
Quinda’s breath was coming in short sharp gasps. “She’s not getting out,” she said. “Alex—” Her voice started up the scale. “She’s not going to get clear.”
The bus pilot whispered her name. “Come on, Chase. Get your ass out of there.”
Nothing. The wreckage slipped beneath the water.
We hurtled across the heaving, white-flecked ocean.
“Hey!” It was Hoch’s voice. “What are you doing back there?”
Another outside camera switched on. We had a view of the bus’s main hatch. A crack of yellow light appeared around it, and then the door swung outward. A woman who’d been pushing on it nearly fell out.
There was a burst of profanity from Hoch.
A man—his name was Alver Cole, and I’ll remember it all my days—appeared in the doorway, hesitated, and jumped out into the ocean. He vanished immediately into the black water.
Quinda hit the braking jets. “About a minute,” she said.
One of the bus’s lights stabbed down and picked up Cole, who had surfaced and was struggling toward the cockpit.
Hoch increased her magnification on the scene in the water. Swimmer and wreckage were lifted high on a wave. “I don’t know,” said the bus pilot, “whether you can see this on your screen or not. But it looks as if he’s reached her.”
“Hoch,” I said. “Your door’s still open. You’re not going to let anybody else jump, are you?”
“I damn well hope not.” She directed someone to see to it. Moments later, the light vanished.
“Patrol coming fast,” said Quinda. “Be here in four or five minutes.”
A cheer went up in the bus. “He’s waving,” said Hoch. “He’s got her.” Hoch continued to maneuver the big vehicle, trying to keep her winglamps on the water.
“We’re seconds away,” said Quinda. “Get ready.”
She pushed the braking jets to full throttle, and the skimmer went into a mild spin. But we stopped hard. I released the canopy lock and pushed it up out of the way. Snow and spray poured in, and I looked out across a slippery wing surface into blazing lights and rough ocean.
Quinda rotated the rear seats, and depressed their backs, giving us two couches. “Over to your left,” came Hoch’s voice.
“There,” said Quinda. I looked just in time to see two heads vanish beneath a wave.
Uncurling my cord, I crawled out onto the wing. It was icy, and my hands froze to it. A sudden burst of wind struck me, and I skidded wildly, sliding toward the ocean. But I got hold of a lamp, a flap, something, and ended up twisted over on my side, both legs dangling, still headed for the water. Quinda was out the door immediately, sprawled across the wing, holding me by an arm and a leg. I could hear Hoch’s voice over the shrieking of the storm, but I couldn’t tell what she was saying. The ocean was turned on its side, and my legs were tangled in the cord.
Quinda shifted around to get a better grip. A wave pounded into the skids, rocking the skimmer violently and sending cold spume into the air. “I’ve got you,” she said.
“Hell of a rescue team,” I grumbled, finally getting my balance, and rolling clumsily back into a sitting position.
“Okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
She gave me a thumbs-up, and ducked back inside just as we got hit again. The skimmer lurched, and icy water washed across the wing. Quinda produced strips of cloth from something and passed them out to me. I wrapped my hands in them.
I could see Chase and the man from the bus. But it was a long way down to them. Maybe eight meters. “Take it lower,” I shouted.
“I think we’re already too low,” Quinda said. “A couple more minutes of this and we’ll be swamped.”
“A couple more minutes of this and it won’t matter.” I went flat on my belly, wishing there was a way to jettison the skids. The swimmers were almost directly below me. Chase was either unconscious or dead. Her rescuer was doing his best to hold her head out of the water. Her leg floated at an odd angle. I watched it bend as they disappeared again into the turbulence.
In that moment, I could have killed Quinda Arin.
The man with Chase hung on. She coughed and threw her head back.
Alive, at least.
He seemed at the end of his strength.
I threw the line toward him. It fell close by, but his hands were frozen. He couldn’t get hold of it. I tried to drag it closer. He got it finally, and looped it around Chase. Quinda appeared beside me again. “Stay at the controls,” I said.
“They’re on automatic.”
“That won’t help if the ocean knocks us sidewise.”
“That’s going to be dead weight coming up. You want to handle it alone?”
The man in the water waved. Okay.
We pulled the line tight. The ocean lifted her toward us, and then fell away. I heard encouragement from Hoch as Chase came out of the water. We were both on our knees now, taking advantage of what purchase we could get, hauling hand over hand.
Chase’s arms hung loosely at her side, and her head lolled on her shoulders.
When she was close enough, I reached down and grabbed her jacket. Her face was deathly white, and splinters of ice crystals clotted her hair and eyebrows. “Watch her leg,” said Quinda.
We got her up onto the wing, and I got the line off her and threw it back into the ocean. Quinda climbed inside the cabin, and I passed Chase through. “Hurry,” said Hoch. “You’re losing the other one.” I left her for Quinda to move to the far couch, and went back for her rescuer.
He was trying to hold onto the line, and not having much luck. Too cold. He held one arm weakly toward me, and slipped under.
Quinda was back.
I handed her the end of the line, and was about to slide over the side, but she shook her head vehemently. “How do you expect me to haul him out of there? Or you afterward?”
“Maybe we should just let him drown,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said bitterly. And then, before I knew what she intended, she was gone. She plunged into the waves, sank, came up choking and gasping, looked around her, went under again.
The man from the bus surfaced moments later on his own. Quinda reached for him, and the sea broke over their heads. But when I saw them again she had him.
I’d retrieved the line and dropped it to her. She looped it quickly under his arms and signaled.
I hauled up.
Dead weight. And a lot heavier than Chase had been.
There was no place to plant my feet. When I tried to pull the line in, I simply slid across the wing surface.
I climbed back inside the cabin, and tried from there. But it was too cramped. He was just too damned heavy.
“Hoch,” I cried.
“I see your problem.”
“Can you have your people open that door again?”
“They’re doing it now.”
“Quinda,” I shouted. “Hang on. Hang onto him. We’re going to bring you both up.” I was tying the line around the seat anchor.
She shook her head. I couldn’t hear her, but she pointed at the line. It wouldn’t be strong enough to support both. To emphasize the point, she pushed away from him, and shouted something else. Over the roar of sea and wind, I understood: “Come back for me.”
I scrambled into the cockpit and took the skimmer up.
Hoch rotated her bus to cut down on my maneuvering. A big warm circle of yellow light opened in her hull. Behind me, Chase made a noise, more whimper than groan.
I got above the bus, and started down. “Tell me when,” I said. “A lot of this is guesswork.”
“Okay,” she said. “You’re doing fine. Check your monitor: you should be getting a picture now, but just keep coming the way you are, coming down, maybe a few meters forward—Okay, keep coming—”
On the screen, I was looking back along the hull of the bus. Several sets of hands gripped the sides of the aircraft around the opened door. “A little lower,” said Hoch.
The line stretched tight out through my own door and over the leading edge of the wing.
Arms reached out of the bus, seized the man by his legs as soon as he was close, and hauled him inside. “Okay,” said Hoch. “We’ve got him.”
“I need the line back.”
“You got it.”
I lurched away. “Keep the door open,” I said. “I’ve got another one in the water. Let’s do it the same way.”
“Okay,” said Hoch. And then, somberly: “Hurry.”
Hurry.
When I got back out on the wing, she was gone. I stood there, trailing the cord, calling her name, not even certain where she’d been, until the Patrol vehicles circled in and took station overhead.
They searched until dawn. But there never was any hope.
XVIII.
To lack a grave matters little.
—Virgil,
Aeneid, II
THERE WAS A gathering for Quinda on a hill outside Andiquar. It was advertised as a commemoration of her life rather than a memorial service. They set a table, and hired a band. The guests sang loudly, if not particularly well, and everyone drank a good deal.
There were maybe two hundred people present, some of whom I recognized from the Talino Society. They toasted her frequently and energetically, and regaled each other with reminiscences. The wind played over the flickering gantner shield that protected them from the temperatures of the winter afternoon.
Chase and I stood off to one side. She leaned on a crutch, moodily silent. When most of the food had been cleared away, the guests gathered around a circular table. And they came forward, one by one, to sum up her life in quiet sentences: she was not known ever to have injured anyone, they said. She was a friend, she was unfailingly optimistic, she’d been a good daughter, and we would not see her like again.
A Talent for War Page 26